


Target Practice

by meaninglessblah



Series: Gift Fics [15]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Come Swallowing, Coming In Pants, Death Threats, Degradation, Dirty Talk, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Gun Kink, Humiliation, Implied Consent, M/M, Public Blow Jobs, Semi-Public Sex, Spit Kink, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:21:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27990672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meaninglessblah/pseuds/meaninglessblah
Summary: Slade goes to buy a new gun, and Dick helps him test the merchandise.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson
Series: Gift Fics [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1960108
Comments: 12
Kudos: 116





	Target Practice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [withthekeyisking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/gifts).



> Merry (early) Christmas, Q! You've been a fantastic friend to me this past year, and even if you may not know it, you've been the highlight to some pretty tough days. Thank you for your incredible friendship and support <3

“I thought you Bats didn't approve of gun ownership,” Slade murmurs when they step over the carpeted threshold. Dick trails him, hands slipped into the back pockets of his jeans. Slade definitely hasn’t been looking at how they frame that cute ass. 

Dick doesn’t seem to notice, his gaze trailing over the wares with aloof curiosity, waiting as Slade approaches the nearest rack. Doesn’t bother to turn over the gaudy little price tag; he can afford any model he needs to. 

“I don’t have an issue with you owning guns,” Dick replies lightly, and Slade hums. “I _do_ have an issue with you using them on innocent civilians, though.” 

“What about smart-talking vigilantes?” Slade quips back, and looks up in time to see the man flush. Dick’s gaze slides away, nonchalant, and he clears his throat. 

“I mean for your work. If you’re just looking for some toys to try out at the range, I’m not going to hold you back.” 

“And there’s no ulterior motive to wanting to accompany me into a gun shop,” Slade returns with a crooked brow. 

“No,” Dick says, admirably level. 

Slade hums again, and wanders over to the handguns. He palms the nearest, pulling it off the rack to test the grip, smooth his trigger finger down the barrel. “See anything you like?” 

Dick smiles. “I don’t want a gun. They’re your thing. I’ve got all I need with my escrima.” 

“Sure, kid.” 

He palms the slide, listening for the satisfying _clack_ of polymer settling. He lifts the firearm and squints his good eye down the sights, aiming for a rack of semiautomatics across the room. Dick’s gaze follows him, but there’s nothing in his expression to give the game away. Doesn’t mean Slade misses the minute hitch in his heart rate. 

He lowers the gun, ejects the empty clip. “So you don’t have an issue with my work?” 

Dick makes a complicated expression. “An issue? Maybe. Would I prefer you were putting your talents to better use? Absolutely. Am I going to try to stop you? I’m not that stupid. _And_ you’re holding a gun.” 

Slade snaps the clip back into the well, holding Dick’s gaze as he does. Which means he sees the heat bleed into those blue orbs. “And they say you’re just the pretty one.” 

Dick gives him a grin for that, trailing Slade as he shifts down the wall, setting that gun aside and trying a higher caliber. 

“Charming. I _am_ more than just a pretty face though.” When Slade opens his mouth, Dick cuts him off with, “Don’t tell me I’ve got a pretty ass too. I’ve heard that one before. Come up with something original.” 

Slade grunts, and weighs the new firearm in his palm. It’s heavier, the frame steel. Dick’s throat bobs when he swallows. 

“Have any favourites?” 

“Favourites?” Dick repeats blankly. 

Slade waggles the gun in his grip. “Any favourites?” 

“Oh.” Dick flushes, then nods at the gun in Slade’s palm. “That one’s bigger.” 

Slade gives him a wry smirk. “Ever the size queen, Grayson.” 

Dick scowls. “I didn’t mean like that. You’re big, I figure a bigger gun is something you’re after. Fragile masculinity and all that.” 

Slade toys with the hammer, ratcheting it back slowly under Dick’s burning gaze. “You really don’t know the first thing about guns, do you, kid?” 

“I’ve studied guns,” Dick contradicts, hands slipping from his pockets to cross over his chest, defensive. He leans his weight into one hip, considering Slade’s current fascination. “Bruce gave us all the rundown.” 

“You haven’t studied them yourself though, have you? Haven’t gotten familiar with them, intimate.” Slade’s grin becomes a tad more malicious when Dick shifts at that, so he smothers it back to acceptable impassivity. “You could do with an education, Grayson.” 

“And you’re going to teach me, are you?” Dick suggests, crooking a dark brow. He doesn’t look offput by the idea, though. 

“Is there anyone who knows guns better than me?” Slade counters, returning the handgun to its hook. Dick’s expression is just the barest bit crestfallen at the surrender. 

He gathers himself rather quickly though, to quip, “Floyd.” 

Indignation spills across Slade’s features before he can curb it, displeasure twisting his lips down at the corners. Dick’s grin grows in response. 

“Jealous, Slade?” 

“Watch your tone, boy.” 

“Oh no,” Dick purrs, and circles around behind Slade to lean one hip against the nearest counter, where Slade’s eyeing the rows of custom engraved bullets with intrigue. “Don’t tell me your ego is that easily bruised.” 

“If you want to talk bruises, boy, that can certainly be arranged.” 

Dick’s lips tick up another notch. “Bit cliche, don’t you think? You’ve only spanked me - what - forty-five times, at last count? Losing your touch a bit, old man.” 

“Or maybe,” Slade contradicts in a low murmur, “I just know all your kinks so well by now, little bird.” 

Dick flushes at the nickname, but lifts his chin an inch, challenging. “I don’t think you know _all_ my kinks.” 

Slade scoffs, and brushes past him to retrieve another firearm, far above where Dick can reach. Doesn’t miss the younger man’s gaze appreciatively trailing the length of his arm when he stretches upward.

He flips the gun over in his palm, watching the light dance down the sleek black metal, the way it catches in Dick’s blue eyes. “You’re not as subtle as you think you are, boy.” 

“Subtle?” Dick prompts, saccharine. 

Slade glances up, meets that gaze with his own cool blue eye. 

There’s the sharp, bright chirp of a momentary alarm, and then the electricity snaps with a harsh sizzle, the store falling into immediate dimness around them. Slade’s gaze goes to the door, to mark the reinforced steel bolt that locks into place. Dick’s gaze sweeps the counter and the unmanned racks. 

“Lockdown,” Slade murmurs, on the lazy side of alert. “Someone tripped the alarm.” 

“No one else in the store,” Dick informs him, in quick report. “Unless someone’s in the back.” 

They pause for a moment, to note the stillness and the distinct lack of panic. 

“False alarm,” Dick entreats, and Slade nods an agreement. 

“No getting out until they reset the breaker, I’d say,” Slade concurs, shifting around Dick to return the firearm to its shelf. Then he has an idea. 

He withdraws the gun, index fingertip stroking the steel. 

Waits until Dick’s gaze slowly returns back to the metal, like a moth to flame, before he offers, “I suppose I could give you that lesson while we wait.” The suggestive stroke of his finger down the barrel leaves no room for implication. 

“Seriously?” Dick says with a hint of incredulity, and eyes the gun. 

Slade lets it loll in his grip, if only so he can enjoy the way Dick’s eyes fitfully track the firearm. “I need a new gun. It would be negligent of me not to test it before purchase.” 

Dick’s gaze flicks to the door, and then the empty counter, skimming that sleek barrel before it jumps back up to Slade. His pulse is rabbiting. “You’re serious.” 

When Slade just holds his gaze, steady and unwavering, Dick’s throat bobs. He bleats a short, tittering laugh, his gaze flashing to the door again as his weight shifts against the case. 

“Here? Right now?” 

“Can you think of somewhere better?” Slade returns, and smirks at the scowl Dick throws him. 

So the little bird needs convincing. Slade’s a regular charmer. 

He takes a step forward, ignoring the reflexive tense that halts the air in Dick’s lungs, and stops just short of crowding the boy. Ensures he’s only barely touching the front of Dick’s torso, enough to set the man’s senses to blistering. 

Dick swallows again, and looks up to meet his eye. 

“I think we both know how this is going to go, little bird,” Slade murmurs, tone deep in a way that pulls a shiver from the acrobat’s arching spine. He lets his wrist lull until the muzzle of the gun in his palm nudges Dick’s thigh, just so he can enjoy the way the boy flinches at the cold touch, distracted. “The question is whether you still need convincing.” 

Dick’s gaze flicks down and back up when the muzzle traces the joint of his thigh and hip, trailing higher before returning. Slade’s lips quirk at the involuntary shudder it produces. 

Then those pretty blue eyes flash across the store one more time, to each corner of the room and back over to the counter. Cataloguing surveillance cameras probably, though he arrives at the same deduction as Slade; whatever tripped the power to the store probably cut the power to the surveillance feeds too. 

All the privacy they need to get started. 

Dick shifts then, hands lifting to Slade’s hips to ease him back a step. Just far enough away from the counter that the little bird can slide down to his knees between Slade’s boots, eyes locked on his the whole while. 

It’s an intoxicating sight, having a man like Dick Grayson willingly sit on his heels at Slade’s feet. Makes his mind race with wicked possibilities, makes him almost wish they had more than a few minutes before the electricity comes back on. 

Let it not be said that Slade can’t make the most of a time-sensitive situation. 

He rolls his wrist, letting the cold metal glide up the angle of the man’s jaw. Dick tilts his head into the motion, giving him a soft little moan when those sights scrape down the ridges of his windpipe and then press in against his pulse. The little notches leave twin marks when Slade pulls them back, but only so he can nudge Dick’s gaze back up to his own again. 

“Didn’t need that much convincing after all,” he points out, and chuckles at the flash in Dick’s gaze. His fingers slip into the man’s dark locks, a hush cresting over his lips as he taps the barrel of the gun against that handsome chin. “Don’t pout, little bird. We both know how much you’ve been begging for a good throat-fucking.” 

“Didn’t think I’d be getting it from your gun,” Dick admits. Slade can tell from the tightness of the words just how affected the man is, see how much he leans into the sensation when Slade drags the gun up to knock gently against his cheekbone. “You’re not one to share, usually.” 

“If you’re going to mouth off,” he warns, “I can give you a nice pretty bruise to remember the occasion by.” 

It’s a delightful sight, watching the words tumble through the boy’s skull, seeing the way he conjures and discards quips just as quickly. Weighing the merit of each against the possibility of Slade knocking his teeth around in retribution. 

He settles on, “I can find something else to do with my mouth, sir.” 

“That’s what I like to hear,” Slade praises gruffly, and reaffirms his grip on the boy’s hair, holding him steady as he aligns the barrel with those begging lips. He makes sure to stop a few inches short of penetrating the man’s mouth though, just to watch the confusion and then the realisation crest over Dick’s features. 

The little bird’s been trained well though, because Slade doesn’t even have to bleat a guiding command before that tongue dips out to lather the underside in a long, tantalising swipe. Slade hums an approving note, offering more of the barrel as the man’s enthusiasm rises. There’s something about the sight of those soft, pliant lips caressing hard metal that has Slade’s blood heating, has him fighting the urge to just fuck straight into the boy’s begging mouth. 

“Chamber's empty, right?” Dick asks between dragging kisses down the cold metal. 

Slade gives a responding hum. “Hard to say.” 

Dick stills for a beat, eyes flashing up. “Sla-” 

He takes advantage of the man’s slack jaw to press the muzzle between his teeth, ignoring the bleat of surprise in favour of enjoying the way Dick immediately opens to allow the gun entrance. It slides across his tongue, sights clacking on his teeth as it dips inside. 

Slade doesn’t push it farther than that, giving his bird a moment to adjust. Those blue eyes are heated, but from the way his cheeks hollow and those pretty lashes flutter invitingly, Slade assumes the outrage is fleeting. 

“That’s the way,” he purrs in approval, enjoying the shiver that traces down Dick’s spine, the way he tilts his throat open a few inches further. Betters the angle of Slade’s gun when it slips over his plush lips. 

The roll of the flesh beneath the unyielding metal is mesmerising, as is the way the boy takes every slow thrust so readily. He looks completely focused, on his knees, at Slade’s mercy. Every sense and nerve attuned to the inexorable press of that gun further and further into his throat. 

“Come on, little bird,” he coaxes, easing the barrel deeper. “Something tells me you’ve got a little more give in you. I’ve seen you take cock deeper than that.” 

Dick whines at the tease, jaw opening farther to let him in, to beckon that gun deeper into his throat. He only gags once, when the sights press against the roof of his mouth, and then he’s drawing in a sharp breath, wresting free of Slade’s grip in his hair to bear down on the weapon. 

When he pulls back up, Slade only lets him withdraw as far as letting the sights clack against the back of his teeth. Those blue eyes slide up to meet his, awaiting instruction, so Slade gives it to him. 

“How about you tell me how much you want it, little bird?” he suggests, and pumps the gun once, slowly, into his mouth just to watch those gorgeous eyes water. “Convince me how much you need a gun down your throat.” 

To his credit, Dick doesn’t try to pull back any further. Not that he’d get far, with Slade’s unrelenting grip holding him at just the right angle. His tongue dips out once, in an attempt to wet his lips perhaps, before he tries to speak around the barrel filling his mouth. 

It’s barely coherent, but Slade can interpret the sentiment of the, “Please, Slade,” from the earnestness in the little bird’s eyes. He watches the man swallow, that throat flexing as that tongue withdraws briefly, before he tries again, moaning the words out around the muzzle in his mouth. 

Slade holds him there, lets the man beg and plead around the obstruction for a few seconds longer. Just until he can see the first bead of drool spill over the stretched corners of those lips, see the flush that takes over his cheeks when Dick realises, see the way he tries to angle himself to curb it and finds himself trapped beneath Slade’s grip. 

“What a pretty sight you make,” Slade coos, tilting his head sideways until the string of drool is caught beneath what remains of the light. If it takes longer to drip down the boy’s chin too, that's just a bonus. “Making a mess of yourself.” 

The droplet parts from Dick’s wavering chin, splattering on the toe of Slade’s boot as they both watch. Slade takes the moment of distraction to thrust the barrel deep, enjoying the sound of the man’s choke, the slick sound of saliva as he gags, before he withdraws it back to a reasonable length again. 

“Just begging for it, aren’t you, slut?” he says quietly, smirking when Dick’s gaze flashes up. It’s wide and open, laid bare for him. 

Slade slides back the gun, ignoring Dick’s bitten down whine as he wipes the weapon clean on each of his cheeks. Feels a thrum of heat at the way Dick’s lashes flutter with shame, at how the spit must feel drying on his skin. Then he returns the gun to rest on the man’s lower lip as he shifts his other hand to unbuckle his belt. 

“I don't think I’d even need this,” Slade ponders aloud, rolling the flesh of Dick’s lip beneath the muzzle, “to get you to take cock like a good whore. You’re eager enough already.” 

Dick moans, soft and breathless, when Slade palms his cock, eyes flickering between the progress of his calloused hand and Slade’s burning gaze. 

“I think you’re just looking for an excuse,” Slade continues, peeling his jeans down far enough that he can bear his cock to the cool air, and pause to sigh, “so that no one blames you for being the eager little slut you are.” 

“Please,” Dick whispers, lips catching on the barrel when he speaks. It kicks Slade’s pulse up another notch. 

“How about you show your gratitude by sucking me and my gun off?” Slade suggests, enjoying the breath that hitches in the man’s throat. “Then I’ll let you keep the excuse to take back to Daddy Bats when he asks why you were on your knees in broad daylight sucking off a mercenary.” 

The groan is much more audible this time, the need obvious in the way his hands fist the material of Slade’s jeans. He doesn’t keep the bird waiting, angling the gun into the corner of Dick’s lips as he feeds his cock into the vigilante’s mouth. 

Dick takes him eagerly, familiarity taking over as he sets to work. Slade lets him adjust for a few moments before he taps the gun against his cheeks, humming approval when they hollow obediently. 

It’s wet and hot, those lips sinful in the way they wrap around Slade’s cock like they were made for nothing else. The small, pleading moans that spill up the boy’s throat are a gorgeous accompaniment, betraying the need in that heated gaze. 

“That’s it, little bird,” Slade murmurs, chuckling at the whine Dick lathers around his cock. Those pretty lashes flutter when he presses the man’s face down on his cock, gun scraping across his cheekbone to dig into his temple. 

He lifts a thumb to draw down the hammer, making sure every click of the mechanism reverberates into the boy’s crooked ear. Those keens rise to a fever pitch when he releases it, his motions growing sloppily desperate as he fucks down onto Slade. Punctuating each moan with the mercenary’s cock hitting the back of his throat. 

“I could blow your brains out, just like this,” Slade coaxes, and curls his finger off the trigger guard. 

Those pretty blues roll, his motions jerking to a surprisingly sudden halt as he shudders. For a moment, Slade wonders if he’s taken it too far; then the flush spreads over the little bird’s cheeks, a sheepish edge to the gaze he won’t lift to meet Slade’s eyes. 

The realisation crawls over Slade’s skin like a palpable heat, thundering down to his groin as he fucks tightly into Dick’s slack, recovering mouth. The thought that the man could come just from the threat of a gun has Slade spilling down his throat, grunting as he empties. 

Dick takes it all with only the mildest of chokes, Slade guiding palm helping him to keep it all down. He settles once the brunt of it is taken, catching his breath when Slade pulls free and tucks himself away. 

“Come on, little bird,” Slade says, offering a hand to pull Dick up to his feet. He wipes the back of a hand against his lips, still flushed with colour beneath Slade’s wandering gaze. “There’s a range in the back where we can try this one out. I think we could even fit you beneath the counter if you aren't inclined to watch.” 

**Author's Note:**

> [ ](https://linktr.ee/meaninglessblah)


End file.
